


Here We Go Again

by kat_fanfic



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Aftermath, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Hospital, John McClane is snarky, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:03:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat_fanfic/pseuds/kat_fanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John looks after Matt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here We Go Again

He doesn’t think much about the fact that it’s Matt that sends the paramedics over to him. 

It takes the second squad some time to reach them, and John is very grateful for the efficient blood-quelling, pain-relieving attention he gets from the two burly medics that arrived in the first one.

It’s only when he manages to glance beyond Lucy hovering over him that he sees the way Matt is slumped on the ground, half-hidden behind that damn desk. The kid has a peculiar expression on his pale face, and it takes John’s drug-addled mind a moment to place it. “Fuck,” he curses the moment he does. 

Shaking off the fog of blood-loss, he halts the hand of Paramedic No. 1 before he can attach another IV bag to his arm. “Matt. Get Matt.” It may come off slurred, but he sees Lucy’s eyes widen.

“Shit!” he hears her say, and that’s his little girl right there. “Over here, we’ve got a second GSW.” 

She’s there quicker than John’s eyes can follow – or maybe that’s the blood loss taking its toll, who knows – but when she crouches down next to the kid, her voice suddenly gets gentle and that’s when his adrenaline starts pumping again. 

Paramedic No. 2 has dashed over as well, but No. 1 is still hovering over John. He tries to look professional and in control, but John has done the same in too many desperate situations not to recognize someone that’s way in over his head. “You,” he rasps, getting No. 1’s attention by waving a hand in his face. “See that kid over there?” He sits up a little to get a better look himself. No. 2 is doing something to Matt’s leg now that makes him scrunch up his ashen face and keen softly under his breath, and it’s all John can do not to shoot the paramedic’s hands off. “His name is Matt Farrell,” he says instead. “He’s a federal witness and under police protection. Even more important, he’s under my personal protection. So you make sure that we’re in the same hospital, okay?”

No. 1 looks at him, wide-eyed. “Sir, that’s not really my-“

“It is now.” John makes his voice stern, giving the man his best no-nonsense stare. The moment he becomes aware of the commotion, though, No. 1 is forgotten and he’s halfway up before he remembers that yeah, blood-loss. He soldiers through the dark spots in his vision and if he leans a little into the paramedic’s strong grip, well, that’s what he’s there for. 

“Sir, please, you really shouldn’t be up yet-“

“Tell me what’s going on.”

No. 1 huffs in exasperation, but glances over to where Lucy and No. 2 seem to be trying to shove something in Matt’s face. “Uh, looks like your friend is having an asthma attack.”

“Jesus Christ.” John makes it all the way up, stumbling over despite No. 2’s protests. When he comes closer, he can hear the way Matt is wheezing, his wide, dark eyes glued to the bleeding wound in his leg. 

John doesn’t know anything about asthma. He’s never had it, had never been close to anyone who’s had it, but what he can hear now has little to do with a chronic illness and all the marks of a full-blown panic attack. 

Grunting, he lowers himself down on his knees, trying to ignore the muted throbbing in his shoulder. Whatever on-the-spot drug the paramedics have given him are beginning to wear off. “Damn kid,” he mutters, even as he reaches for Matt with his uninjured arm. 

“Dad, what are you doing?” Lucy is still trying to get the kid to suck on a small cylinder type thing and John barely restrains from rolling his eyes. 

“All the ruckus is making my head hurt,” he grunts, shoving her gently out of the way. Cradling the kid’s wan face, he urges him to look up. “Matt, calm down.”

“Wha-?” The kid gasped, keening in pain when his harsh gasps make him move his leg. “Hu—hurts… I—I can’t--” 

John pulls his face into a grimace. His own shoulder wound is flaring up in sympathy and he knows he’s fading fast. “I know, kid,” he murmurs, leaning in until their foreheads are almost touching. “But you gotta calm down and let the medics do their job, yeah? They got the good drugs.”

Matt calms at his touch, the panicked breathing slowing. “Yeah,” he croaks, his eyes searching John’s. “Will—will you stay?”

There’s no way John’s leaving him now, but he is keenly aware of the darkness encroaching on his vision. “Yeah, kid,” he murmurs, shooting a stern glance at No. 1. “They’re gonna put us in the same ambulance.” The last thing he sees is the man’s exasperated eye-roll, even as he makes a dive for him, because suddenly, the ground is rushing up to meet him.

 

***

John glares at the pretty nurse checking his vitals. 

She skillfully ignores him, hands firm as she does all the nursey stuff John just has no patience for.

He glares harder, adding a scowl.

She shoots a glance at him and rolls her eyes at his effort. 

Motherfucking nurses and their stupid immunity to perfectly good intimidation techniques. 

They work on most criminals, is the thing, although considering the amount of blood, sweat and gore he usually sports, and the fact that he’s seldom unarmed when glaring, he can see how a clean, hospital scrub-wearing him has less success with it.

And damn if he isn’t thought-rambling like a certain someone.

„Well,“ pretty-nurse finally says, dropping his wrist unceremoniously, „considering you’ve been shot, beaten up and thrown off a collapsing bridge, I’d say you’re surprisingly undamaged.“

Snorting, John mutters, “undamaged, she says” and winces as he tries to get up from the bed. He is tempted to rip out the IV, which is itching like a sonofabitch, but thinks better of it when pretty-nurse sends him a glare of her own.

He studies her wrinkled brow, the way her eyes narrow and her mouth make a thin, hard line. “That isn’t a half-bad cop look you got going there,” he comments, grinning wryly. 

“I have two little boys at home. They call it The Look.” John can practically hear the capital letters. “Whatever works, right?”

Flashing back to two big-eyed little trouble-makers, he nods. “How old are they?”

She smirks. “Five. And thirty-six.”

It startles a surprised bark of laughter out of him and he doesn’t even protest when she steps closer to fiddle with some of the equipment dangling from various appendages. “Name’s John,” he grunts through a pained grimace. Hospital staff and the endless fiddling with bandages – he’ll never understand it. 

She gives him an appraising look. “I’m Lucy, nice to meet you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans. Because sure, why not? 

She god-damn cackles at him. “I’m kidding! My name’s Amy.” She chuckles some more, ignoring his less than amused curse. “Matt was right, this _was_ fun. Your face was priceless.” She wipes a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye. 

“Awesome,” he mutters darkly. “Kid’s not even here and still he gives me hell.” 

“Funny. That’s what he predicted you’d say.”

Changing the subject is about the only response John can muster up to that one. Damn kid. “How did you even know about the bridge?” 

He’s been in the hospital for a little over two days. Ironically, the self-inflicted second bullet had actually saved him from having to undergo surgery. It’d shoved the first one right out of his shoulder and had left a clean, round hole with no muscle or bone damage. 

Lucky shot, the doctors had called it. He still hasn’t come up with an appropriate answer to that.

Amy doesn’t even try to stop him from leaving. She just lifts an eyebrow and watches him struggle with his pants. “You mean, aside from your friends at the FBI crawling all over the place, asking all kinds of questions?”

“Friends.” He grunts, trying not to sound like the pain in his shoulder is a high seven on the McClane scale. “Not the word I would have used. Don’t think the FBI would spread my statement, though, considering most of it is confidential.”

Her lips twitch. “Oh, I know. But your little sidekick had no such qualms. He wouldn’t shut up about you the whole time he was here. Drove Dr. Simmons up the wall with his constant commentary. Rumor has it he even talked through surgery.”

“He would,” John mutters, lips quirking in a small smile despite himself. “How is the kid? Haven’t seen him in a while – or heard him, for that matter.”

“He checked himself out, a bit over an hour ago, against doctor’s orders.” She gives him a meaningful look. 

John blinks up at her. 

“Oh, stop it, you,” she says with fond exasperation. “Sign the papers already and shoo. Maybe then something resembling order will return to this hospital.”

He doubts it, what with the aftermath of the firesale still running the city ragged, but he knows better than to point that out. Instead, he turns to get dressed, ignoring the sharp pain in his shoulder or the way the room spins every time he moves too fast. 

All he wants is to escape the sickly smell of explosives and blood that clings to him like a second skin. A long, hot shower, a cold beer and some much needed couch-time is in order and not even overzealous doctors would keep him from that.

There’s a loud, sudden crash in the hallway, and with all his senses still on overdrive, John reacts on instinct. Crouching down, the words “stay behind me, kid” roll off his tongue even as he grapples for a weapon that isn’t there. 

Several heartbeats later, no terrorists are trying to shoot their way into the hospital. There aren’t any shouts, panicked or otherwise, except for an amused call of, “Way to go, newbie!”

John closes his eyes for a second to fight the sudden adrenaline rush. His legs are trembling and a dull ache starts to spread from his forehead down his whole body.

“Easy, John,” Amy says softly, in a tone that suggests she’s been talking for awhile. “Just an orderly throwing around some trays. You with me now? John?” 

“Yeah,” he rasps, clearing his throat. “I’m good.”

She musters him for a moment. “You know, if you ever need to talk about what happened, my cousin’s a psychiatrist. A good one, he’s specialized in PTSD, works with war veterans mostly.”

There isn’t much John likes about hospitals. Most of his stays are filled with various amounts of poking, followed by the inevitable frustration of being laid up. Rarely has anything convinced John that staying in one isn’t a complete waste of his time. 

First time for everything, though.

“Leave me his number, will you?” It comes out gruffer than he intends but Amy still smiles at him. 

“Sure thing,” she murmurs and scribbles a few digits on a piece of paper. “Maybe you can accompany Matt when you make him go? I’m sure he’d appreciate the support, and maybe Clay can convince you to make an appointment for yourself.”

Busted. “Yeah, somehow I doubt that.” He winks at her, deadpan, and pockets the number.

She gives him a look that reminds him eerily of his mother and pulls two little bottles out of her pocket. “Whatever. This,” she indicates the one with the blue label, “is for the pain, the other one are antibiotics. Dr. Connors will be here shortly to give you instructions -“

“- and try to talk me out of leaving, I know,” he interrupts gruffly. He’s a bit more shook up by the tray incident than he wants to admit and all he wants is to go home and regroup. 

Home. Ah, Shit.

“Listen, Amy,” he says, going for persuasive rather than commanding. “I’ll be getting out of here today, and I’d rather it’d be sooner than later. So, if you could get my papers ready and tell the Doctor he has exactly ten minutes to give me his best shot at convincing me to stay, I’ll be really grateful.”

“You,” Amy answers, admiration in her tone, “are one hell of a pain in the ass.”

John shrugs. “Part of my charm.”

 

* * * *

 

“Hey.”

Matt gasps and whirls around. “Holy crap, McClane, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

John snorts. Glancing around the destroyed apartment, his wandering gaze finally lands on Matt. The kid is wielding a broom in one hand and a huge garbage bag in the other. He’s made some headway in the mess already, but it only emphasizes the futility of his efforts. 

The place is a goner. 

Still, Matt has obviously been at it awhile. The kid needs a shower from the look of things, along with some proper rest not aided by morphine and sedatives. He has a bone-weary air about him that John knows too well. There’s a reason he used to spend weeks buried in a bottle after every time he needed to be ‘that guy’. 

Also, bullet wounds are a bitch to get around with. 

“Long day, huh?”

Matt looks at him as if he’s crazy. Then, his lips quirk into a wry smile and with a pang, John realizes how much he missed that expression. It’s only been a couple of days since they made it to the hospital, but for some reason it feels a lot longer than that. 

“Yeah, you know,” Matt quips and shakes dark bangs out of his eyes, “being chased around by terrorists with helicopters and machine guns is kinda strenuous. Also, those drugs they give you? Way of a buzzkill in the long run. I’ve had three Red Bulls in the last hour and for all it did, it might have well been _water_.” 

John is amused at the sheer disgust in the kid’s voice, even as worry gnaws in his gut at the fevered gleam in his eyes. 

“Oh hey, are you okay?” It’s as if the thought just occurred to Matt. “Why did they let you go this soon, aren’t you, like, really hurt?” 

Startled, and a bit bemused by the honest concern, John answers truthfully. “Released myself. This is nothing that some pain pills and a couple days of sleep won’t cure.”

Nodding slowly, Matt lowers his gaze. “Sounds good,” he murmurs. “So, how did you get here? And what are you even doing here in Jersey, man? You should be in DC with Lucy, celebrating your heroic, um, heroeness.”

John grins at him. “You think? Nah, I grew out of celebrating awhile ago, kid. Besides, Lucy is with her douchebag boyfriend, celebrating on her own.” 

“Ah,” Matt nods knowingly. “Yeah, well. Jim seems to be a good guy, underneath all the Alpha male jock crap.”

“I’m gonna have to take your word for that.” Walking further into the room, John winces at the crunching sound beneath his feet. The place is a mess. And it’s kinda cold. And it doesn’t have a proper door anymore. “Anyway, Bowman owed me a favor, so some poor fed gets to play chauffeur for me a couple of days. You, ah, going to stay here?” 

Matt looks at him incredulously. “Yeah, man. I mean, where the hell did you think I’d stay? This is my place after all. Okay, it got a little banged up and, damn, I’m not looking forward to the landlord coming over tomorrow, but hey, I’ll just sweep the ground and put something in front of the door, and…” His eyes are on the floor again, mindlessly shoving around the pieces of his former life.

If it hadn’t been so heartbreaking, John reflects later, it could have been pretty funny, the way the flow of words suddenly stop as the reality of his situation become clear. 

“Um,” Matt continues after a second, raggedly, slumping on the broom, his free hand pulling at his wild hair. “I’ll need some new stuff, and someone to do the walls right, and, um, good thing that I got a bit of money saved or I’d have to live with Freddy.”

John frowns at that. “Where’re your parents? Can’t you stay with them?”

Matt stares at him as if he’d said something about wanting to dance round the Times Square clad only in a ping tutu, before giving a bitter laugh. “Yeah, um, no. No way. Me and the old folks? We’re kinda like iTunes and Windows XP, not compatible, even though it’s supposed to work.”

Ignoring the geek babble, John nods. “Yeah, I get it. I think.” Looking around again, noting the small tremors running through the kids’ body and the way he put almost none of his weight on the injured leg, John makes a decision. “Grab your stuff, whatever you think you need to salvage. The rest we can get for you in New York.”

“New York? But I can’t, I mean, what would I do in New York?”

John walks over to the remains of the closet and starts throwing clothes into a small duffel bag he finds in the back. “You’re gonna stay with me for a couple of weeks,” he says conversationally, grinning at the Snoopy boxers he pulls from the pile. “Just long enough till you’re ready to get on your own feet again.”

When there’s no answer, John turns around. Matt is staring at him, frowning. He’s still holding the broom and at his feet is the infamous computer bag. “You don’t have to do that,” he says after a pause. “I mean, I know how it’s like, normal, to get attached to someone when you’ve been through something traumatic together, and you _know_ how I kind of am a little bit in love with you, but, man, you don’t have to—“

John holds up a hand, brain screeching to a sudden halt. “Matt.” He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s been a while since he had use for that particular tone. “Repeat. You’re what?”

Matt’s eyes are huge. There’s a sudden hectic color rising in his cheeks. “I—ah. Nothing? I’m on a lot of painkillers, man, you know that. You can’t hold anything I say against me, okay? Or, like, kill me, cause _of course_ you’re nothing but exclusively hetero and I didn’t mean to imply--”

John heaves a sigh and looks up at the ceiling. “Christ Jesus,” he interrupts the frantic rambling. “Do I look like I’m about to kill you?”

Matt actually looks him up and down, dark eyes roaming over his body that is very distracting. John consciously relaxes his stance and resists the urge to suck in his gut. 

“Uh,” Matt finally answers, looking confused. “No?”

“You know,” he says, stalking closer, “for someone so smart, you’re kind of a dumb-ass.”

For some reason, this makes Matt relax. “Yeah,” he chuckles, glancing to the ground, at John’s face, and down again. The red is still high on his cheeks. “It’s not the first time I heard that.”

John steps into his space, unconcerned by their mutual state of grunginess. Once there, it’s one move to use his good arm to take Matt by the back of his neck and pull him in. “You sure?” he murmurs against Matt’s lips. “I’m not made for flings, Matty, so you better be positive about wanting to be with a grumpy old man before we’re doing this.”

Matt’s eyes are as wide as they’d been the last time John had held him close like this, only, now, none of them are bleeding, and if Matt is a little out of breath, he sure is hoping that it has nothing to do with terror.

“John. “Matt’s voice is surprisingly firm. “Shut up and kiss me.”

John does, but only after sneaking a murmured “bossy” in. After all, he’s an expert at bending the rules.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be longer, but I kinda lost my way with it, so I thought I'd post what I got. Hope you enjoyed anyway. :)


End file.
